art music poetry #84

A shark and a space shuttle?

A shark and a space shuttle?

Each Day Complete Now
6 January, 2002, #4

Yellow springs to red:
Three week beard bristles under
Turtle-brass glasses.
Heaving chest attests to valiant days
Spent loving life, yet
Yearning for another shot.
Each day complete now.

Tufted gulls scream out:
“My food not yours.” New chicks chirp
In Palms, aware that Mom
Has won again, enough to feed them.
The clank of dredge barge
Snaps thoughts back to you, brother.
Each day complete now.

Blue, gray, white, unite
At constant horizon, soft
Even liquid here
On the patio, never the same,
Tears ever present,
The years flip by like pages past,
Each day complete now.

art music poetry #83

a rare one in one color.

a rare one in one color.

Fourteen Ninety Two

She wants three times more than she gets, but does
not know how to get it. They laugh when he tells
of performance art beyond the capacity for most to
understand. She glitters her face in accordance to
artistic norms. He comes in sneakers carrying twenty
new paintings rolled up, a heavy load strapped underneath
nap sack, twisting lumbars out of place. Broken toes, at
least a sprained knee and a crushed ego do not slow him
down in his quest to make a great art show. She uses him
like a pawn in a death-match with her best friend. He was
called to rescue her from beer, but when he stayed a friend
long enough to witness the war, he was his own sword
slicing away by trying to stay friends with both. They love
to point out how great it all could have been if he had stuck to
the plan, been more plyable, more relaxed, more able to pick
one, drop the other. But he doesn’t drop friends just because
they treat each other miserably. He laughs at the next comparison,
that Yoko Ono is the “Picasso of Japan,” is she even the Yoko Ono
of performance art? We get to sit and talk about what happens
continents away. “What if Europeans never discovered America?”

art music poetry #82

Gruber-Clark picked this one.  It also got play in an NC newspaper once.

Gruber-Clark picked this one. It also got play in an NC newspaper once.

EL III

Moody gray barely
makes contrast
against white-bright sun.
On the quad
you might miss a bench,

obelisk,
or palmetto on fog filled
days that, though rarely lasting
past noon, mark time in
brains both atrophied by hearts.

You stayed. Roanoke
fit you, gave
more than it took, meant
people cared,
your complete life, a

full swing at
everything: video, art,
music, religion, howling
on moon walks, peering
over the edge, under the

star, at lit
ants snaking through seven-hill
valley. Where
have all the protests
gone, what inspires enough?

Catapult
your talent past meds sir Ed.
You lend a
hand, guide when you can,
nurse those unrepaired

psyches around you and have
yet to get back what
you deserve.
Doesn’t a local ballpoint come
right out and

scream for you to write
again? You write it, I’ll push
it. Heron
Two is in
Russia’s library

now; if we keep trying they
may yet let us bash
down the door
for a flurry of public,
attended

readings, an award
from this or that high
council on
the state of
poesy? Or to die

trying, that’s
what I say. I have a
son, so there’s
a chance these words will
live on a while, but

you sir, need
to crank it up again, and
soon. If not
for personal gain,
to help those in pain.

art music poetry #81

Pelican at take-off with Chick

Pelican at take-off with Chick

Tang Quest I – V

Red morning wind kicks
leaves over vegetable cage.
Felled white oak patiently
absorbs blade after blade.

Chunked wood magically
stacks upon self, against mud.
Sawdust darkens. Winter rain
slows work, allows love time.

Pond refills, frightened turtle
relaxes. Cool December water
welcomes geese and herons
to rolling clay-built hills.

Man and woman join; new
child cries, coos, sleeps.
Six point buck stops, observes,
moves slowly out of view.

Fog lifts, sun creeps past
logs, warms three thousand
trees, sixty moons past white
buffalo’s birth. Bonus time.

II

Colorful turkeys gather
under lit moon; feathers
diffract beams to cedars
lined, two rows; historical
trees whose dead branches
dangle predictions at pond’s
edge. Three run to flight,
circle, drop back, contrive,
spread; anticipate coming of
spring. Winter rain cuts fog.
Hilltop oaks sparkle when
wind pushes limbs through
ethereal mist sent down to
visit this New year’s Eve.

III

Hair-bellied bull
stands. Dainty tied-foot
girl spreads parasol.
Protrusion emerges from
hair; pillow placed,
dress-becomes-blanket;
fantasy or farm boy
hovers, slogs. Heavy
mud slows progress.
Results equal effort:
parasol quivers, wind
stiffens, girl rolls, wakes
inner spirit, follows
heart-made trail
to pastoral life.

IV

Respected grandfather ties
green maple branches,
nails joints, rakes
leaves onto compost,
works tools vigorously,
reads after dinner,
speaks less than one
paragraph per day.
He is bent over:
seventy-eight years
translating, teaching, gardening.
Happiness, not out of reach,
but produced by
simple living.

V

Watching ladybugs,
tuning to zen movement,
could transform one
overindulged son-in-law.
First he must learn to
separate men’s and women’s
tasks, no easy lesson
for western man.

Art Music Poetry #80

Picked by Eduardo Lapetina as a good one

Picked by Eduardo Lapetina as a good one

Jog

The city of bouncing hair comes alive in winter
As the usual joggers, on display, pick the most
Crowded roads to work out on. Hair of every
Imaginable color flips side to side above bodies that,
To the naked eye, appear to be perfect already.
Jog on young damsels, and perhaps one day
Just the right Benz-driving law student will
Holler out his window as he flashes by. Then,
Two days later, same street, same time, he’ll return,
Dressed in gym shorts for the first time in years,
To jog in hopes of “accidentally” running into you.
Strategic jogging calls for catching you right at the
Corner of Franklin and Boundary as the light turns
Against your ability to flee. Then, in a moment
Of rapture, fully out of breath, he runs-in-place
And pops a question. “Jog here often?” To which
You smugly answer, “Not really,” which sets in motion
A blossoming crocus of late February, followed by many
Dogwood afternoons in March, the quick iris rush of April,
And magnificent magnolia May. By June, other moons.

Art Music poetry #79

Blood Clot.  A Blood Clot or clots can really mess up your life.  be careful folks.

Blood Clot. A Blood Clot or clots can really mess up your life. be careful folks.

or

The Meadow

The meadow’s grains flow in the breeze
While birds fly up above.
The leaves are turning in the trees
And lovers are making love.

The wild asparagus has gone away,
The corn is turning brown.
But this is where I’m going to stay
Because I’m feeling down.

If someone would come with me,
If someone would really care.
I’d take them up and we would see
That chestnut thoroughbred mare.

And we would pick some long tall grass
And throw it at each other.
And we would watch the summer pass
Being friends with one another.

My dearest friend I will not lie,
I love you very much.
But like the elusive butterfly
You are much to nice to touch.

art music poetry 78

#1524 "Another Pet"

#1524 “Another Pet”

Chilly Day

Here you are, and here they are: in camouflage on a weekend

furlough, scoping out the wide variety of female talent.  From

rank amateur to well-played skeptic, the ladies walk by until the

rest of the local unit falls in to form a posse of seven.  Is it a

typical Sinae-day?  No.  The coffee/pastry shop, usually packed

on Saturday is down to two of us.  No one, I mean none of the shop

walkers buys anything.  Today’s parade is bagless, an early sign,

like snow-poking crocus, of a springtime of heartbreak.  Human

desire keeps us on the same course, even if stripped of buying.

We want to mingle, so here come the expats, some lonely, others

paired up.  Another sleepless year is a sure bet.  Productivity only

matters if you are producing food.  Bunned hair atop mega-hottie

stands, pink rose in hand, waiting a while then moving west,

searching for the idiot who caused her boredom.  The brown dog

held by the crazy man, gets away, pees on an astro-turf carpet,

enrages the shop manager, is swept up and flees with its homeless

master.  Twitching, greasy-haired, dark-skinned landmark is on the

run again.  Maybe he finds a warm place to sleep.  Someone did up

his hair in corn rows so it doesn’t get scraggly.  Walkers veer away,

he’s seen it for years.  They could learn survival from him, but don’t.

Art Music Poetry #77

Opus 1528 36 x 24, hung one of two ways - Copy

Anchored in

oblivion, attached to

lost friends, so

gone they have no fond

memories.

You do though…

the flowers picked, presented

to warm eyes,

neighborhood news man

bicycling.

Chestnut wars

fifty paces from “blue lake.”

She jumps in,

swims under water,

pulls shorts down.

Decisions

pile, conspire, socialize, while

baked clams soak.

You walk into gray.

Where’s Hyuntay?

Art Music Poetry 76

This one is in Cypress owned by Ferridun, the singfer.

This one is in Cypress owned by Ferridun, the singer.

Now or Never

 

A turtle flies through the universe.

We ride on the back of the turtle.

The Undergods dwell in Canandaigua,

The Overgods look down from clouds.

Even if we’re 300 moons away from

When this mattered, most of our lives

Are touched by one holy inspiration:  nature.

Cosmic coincidence should not amaze here.

You are in the middle of the new awareness.

Black rocks spin and dive in deep water.

A four-year-old runs then swims.

Relaxed willow provides humid shelter.

You peek under the giant grass skirt

And see four tangled feet.  You don’t peek further.

Gray locusts send twirling twigs to hair.

You swim out to a cooler spot of deep water.

The white snake, awake again,

Leaves Bare Hill, not reeking havoc

But cutting new creeks to hike along,

Full of crawdads and water spiders.

You retrace ancient steps.  You sneak

Through the old neighborhood, now trespassing.

Four tangled feet, a few skipping stones

And the spirit within you.

Now awareness reigns.  Corn presents

A raw treat for passing minstrels.  Nothing

Talked about or noticed matters.

Canary Row Hoe Ho

There’s a hippy girl in my class who wears Mao’s cap, dates

a long-haired boy and wrote a kick-ass environmental piece.

You’d like to poke through every long-leafed elephant-ear on

campus, stroking nature, this beautiful sub-plot, with hoe, adze,

al or clipper: chopping down in order to raise back up, involved

with earth as is intended.  Some say a new time has come, White

Buffalo and all. Consequences outnumber rewards at a twenty to

one clip, as Mongolians suffer from bad air and China’s expanding

desert, even though they’ve done their part to live in a preservationist

way.  But global means brutal these days:  global trade = wage slave,

global warming = no food, global war = death for the multitudes,

profit for the stinking rich few.  Love abounds in campus towns,

while “repo-men” reap millions, and songbirds still find seeds around

as legs spread out the leaves.  Our new man is African, and that’s

so fine with me, and babies laugh, and mothers smile, here in the

land of the free.  So what that free means money, instead of love

and food.  When no one has a dime to spare, friendship will lift

our mood.  Or will there be the occasional hijacked truck or plane?

Who cares as long as we can load up the kids, drive south to live

in a genuine, warm, Steinbeck-decorated pipe that used to be a drain

Armistice is only Words Away

Red and yellow leaves smash above remaining green

On brittle trees stressed by drought.

The fall crop grows together from fear.

War ruins the party here, starving refugees move out.

Warm sun parches grass to dust in Chapel Hill.

Light kills.  News disrupts gentle walks.

Two thousand one claims close lives, no way to hide

The reign death’s image starts with superficial talk.

Peaceful winds entice lovers bent on keeping war at bay.

Rice is blown to bits, extreme starvation, war means war.

The dissidents’ Gulag hut awaits activist Americans,

And “your flag decal won’t get you into heaven anymore.”  1

Three deer caught in lights that look like monster’s eyes.

Nature, fraught with tarmac, endures another “bombs away.”

Scream , young angst poets.  Wipe the cynical smirk off and scream!

One life to infect your neighborhood.  One chance only:  today.

Hargraves Blues

No obstacles in the physical realm can stop the

Flow of fix or ruin.  One bicyclist, content to move

In limited space, dodges traffic, kicks her stand

And heads in to read.  She gets paid to read, not many do.

No life is long enough to support all the relationships

We build:  kids to cats, Moms to cleaning, teacher-student,

Boss to worker.  One walker strides down Rosemary Street,

Pulls his hat over his ears, holds palms open, seeking change.

No gesture, however insignificant, goes unseen

In a town full of women.  Drivers bounce from one plan

To another, running reds.  Phone calls, calendar notes and

Breakfast fill seconds between lane changes, defying death.

No effort, regardless of intention, can sew a revolution

Without mass appeal.  Two men shrug, walking into shade.

Nothing for them to do but drink and smoke and go to sleep.

The truth is here to see but no one’s looking anymore.

No wind, even from Saskatchewan, can clean us now.

Some loudmouth stumbles in offering to teach, but

None will have it.  A rider, bussing there and back for free,

Takes comfort when a man stands to offer her a seat.

No sandwich, ever so scrumptious, lingers past initial taste.

Sun shines on a bouncing orb.  Four for four, he’s another

Wizard with his hands.  He does not get paid to shoot a ball.

His hand-to-eye skills have no value in this part of the world.

Jesus is a Liberal

 

Jesus Christ would not be proud

To see religion in this state.  (Virginia that is.)

TV evangelists preach a canon of intolerance.

Jesus never expected people to hate in his name.

Building amusement parks in homage to God

Makes as much sense as waging war for Christ.

A god who attracts such diverse attentions

Is not a nice god or even a holy god.

He must be the god of money, or,

The god of land acquisition, or, perhaps

Even the god of death.  Now that should

Set bells ringing in your bible-belt ears.

The god of death destroys life and love,

The god of death is worshipped in Lynchburg.

><><><><><><><><><

Curled hair bobs and flows

loves this nut who is

not very kinky for a

man who wears

knee-high stockings, but…

She waits, feels

abandoned except

during busy days.

PC discussions

mingle with game playing as

energetic child

asks which sport is next.

No friend lives without love, as

only life’s

loveless souls are shunned.

Spirit breaks

if oppressed. We knew

we could not impose

or survive any

more:  our common ground.

I long for

your laugh, enthusiasm,

lust for life,

knowing glance, heartfelt

hand stretched out for me.

Birds move fast

in cold Korea, scurry

for scant seeds;

determined women

do all for children.

HAYTI Center, January 31, 2013

 

Community Health Centers swell to bursting after private

universities buy the general hospitals, start turning away

anyone without insurance.  Plenty die who would ordinarily

be saved if the Hypocritic oath were as weighty as the

almighty dollar.  Making big bucks of the already-made-

miserable in society is not reserved for lawyers or mortgage

bankers, so let’s add hospital corporations, medicinal supplies,

overpriced insurance, overpriced schools, nice controls and

the real prospect of Medicaid/Medicare cuts that would make

matters worse for who, guess who!? Let’s get this straight:

first they build out for-profit jails and FEMA camps, then they

bail out the thieves at the top, now they figure to balance one trillion

dollars per year  deficits on the backs of the same neighborhood

that saw all its jobs disappear and filled the jails…and the way

they will start is to finish medical support!?  That and firing

more teachers, allowing beidges to collapse, and, yeah, oh yeah,

still hoisting research grants for next generation weaponry.  Health

care, oh HEALTH CARE you glorious symbol of all that is

fascist about my dear USA.  Lord, keep me healthy!

Multi moments multiply, multicultural generations blossom youngsters

As capitalist refugees, ex pats and local ladies and men brave the

provincial natural reaction to any invading force, be they linguists

or “liberators.”  Bone-up on enough local customs and you can

flourish, especially for those adept at leading two lives: public

and private.  Indeed the gossip wire is powered by the

most efficient Tesla/Bondini magnetron.  Go gently into this,

learn fast, join in, do not go it alone.  Friends dear friends

will make this neighborhood so appealing, over time you’re

not gonna wanna go home.  The swirl of what comes next

becomes intricate as economics worsen pm a rotating

basis, the direct result of greed soaked, yet bailed out anyway

bankers.  Where is safe?  What is safe?  Old? Arable land?

Protein?  Find your place fleeing youngsters, paradise lays

At your feet, just work hard, make contacts and primarily, be

Born into the right family, or, if need be, marry in.  Never let

The love die.  Build multiple paths and bridges over philosophical

Abysses.  Remain yourself and insist on self time, or poker

With ex pats, or dance parties filled with common hook-ups

And soap opera exits up steep leg-exposing stairs.  Welcome home!

Viscosity

 

It’s a good time:  questions lead to vibrant conversations

in a meeting of oh-so-many professors.  They bus them

in so at least a few will be around to question each other

after their presentations.  Is there time then to huddle away

from the noise and aspirations of self-appointed dukes-turned

pirates?  Capital Diaspora increases in volume, velocity and

derivatives so labyrinthine and full of contradictory legalese

that determining melt-down culprits becomes so hard it’s not

worth doing. Voila! What should be heaven on earth for capitalists

is interrupted by those who have been oppressed the most, who suffer

the palpable divide of the miniscule mega-rich and massive starving

poor:  middle-easterners. Already cordoned by culture, further-assailed

by invading “infidels,” stuck living over oil, virtually landless as war

spreads and rival tribal gangs carve space, steal resources, add

torture to their bag of tricks to cover financial malfeasance in the

age of fascist vitality.  The double-eagle (not a hole-in-two

on a par five) rises from newly moved nest. Revenge of its own

well-planned firestorm gives the investment class a few safe

bets outside China, as Halliburton sails again.  Dick, Don and George

evaluated, forecast, gave this mess to opponents before the collapse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Top

Secrets

 

 

Poetry written in Korea

and downtown

  1. Douglas Stuber

Ode to Horace Mann

                                             Be ashamed to die until you have won some

                                                       victory for humanity. – Horace Mann

 

Be aware that energy is life, save some for your kids.

Be afraid that our minds are bent by news, not books.

Be awed by the healing power of the simple purple cone flower.

Be awake before the bombs drop, before the money rules.

Be agile:  live in a town that walks and bikes to work and play.

Be amused by ants and birds, goats and potato fields, lilacs and Sycamores.

Be angry only long enough to solve the problem, then move on.

Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.

Scraggly crag,

a rock  that landed

sideways when

tossed by an angry

god towers over farmers.

 

Except for crooked

pines, post-war

square architecture, country

apartments,

the green is British

in summer

as fog covered rice

might well be

adequate cover

for foxes dodging hunters.

Old habits die hard,

but here it

is the grandfather riding

his bike to

the park to play “go.”

But it’s not

“go” but Padook, frustrating

As it seems

Simple to the untrained

Eyes, yet as complex

as any

chess match once you understand

how easy

it is to blunder,

hard it is to win.

 

 

 

Fieldstone stacked to make

a house stands out where

greenhouses

and silos are the

norm.  Multicolored

school invites

youngsters to strive to

reach past rural start,

beyond chicken feeding to

some known school

the whole village can

be proud of, the first

student to

matriculate from

this county, later

a statue

built in honor of

the first from Jido

to become a Yonsei grad.

Not all will

do so well,

but this boy’s grandfather did,

his mother’s

Dad, the one who read

a lot, got lost one

 

time tying

plastic orange ribbons to

red bud trees

so your Dad would not

cut them down in haste.

 

 

 

Cooking smell,

it’s beef bourguignon

devours the ground floor of

three story cottage.

The attic

is used by

number four dancing

girl, who sips coffee

while working Kia

games for a mere one

point five per

month.  “But she may have

a moonlighting job” my friend

suggests pays that much

per weekend.

But this is

wild speculation

thrown around when down

one zip in the sixth.

Then a well-shaved fan

 

bounces a

few enthusiastic cheers

causing breast

wiggles New Balance

could use in its next

ad, or is

ample replacement during

cheerleader

breaks.  Then Lee Young Kyo

makes game-saving catch.

25 July 2012

Kia 3, Nexen 1

Henry Sosa pitches for Kia

You could see

how a teenager

might get a case of

cold feet, or

if there was an age

gap, or if the two

cultures were

far apart, or if

his unreal

philosophy countered hers,

 

but in this

case, no visible

yield or stop sign comes

into view,

just straight romantic

jitters from being

so lonely

so long.  Rather than

countering

with bravado, he lays low

applying finesse,

not his long suit, then

flying off,

allowing time to

ponder which thrust or

parry will

accomplish intimacy.

These two, so

bonded by words but

so shy in person.


 

Copenhavn Logo “Have a Good Time”

 

If middle class were

this good world-wide there

would be no

war, just beer-drunk anchor climb

kanal wall sitting.

 

No aluminum

collecting

in low-slung hat, or

child beggars

or water

and food deprived, just

on big high-heeled sit

down chat with

waffles, perfect tall women,

misplaced Asians lost

in nervous laughter

pulling out

warm beer from pockets

as a cool

breeze allows

brief reprieve

from overheated planet

if, if, if

Copenhagen was

The norm, but it’s not.

Too many

camera-perfect scenes float

past to feel

guilt for long, so you

drop photos, write more.

Gang Bang

 

Molly, from upper-middle class London

“joined” a gang due to family arguments and

too much academic pressure at home.  She was

forced, emotionally, to seek love, and used sex

with violent gangsters to replace a hug and

soothing parental interface.  Instead of “School

Without Walls” (see Rochester, NY) she’s passed

her rite, and this has gone on for decades, but as

soon as she started her own sexual adventures

she was demonized as “sket,” Jamaican slang

for slut.  This only differs from fraternizing

and sorority-izing in comfort level, as both groups

excel at manipulation, winner-take-all, libertarian

capitalism, unfettered by law, rules or regulations

while free to beg trillions when their Usury schemes

fail then cripple the blue collar backbone over here

in the land of polarization, as in Ralph Nader, Noam

Chomsky and Michael Moore against O Reilly,

Gingrich and Palin.  On paper this is a smear,

but in reality we’re as fucked as Molly ever was.

Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events

Enough concentration camps to hold two million at a time.

Enough new gas lines installed at these converted, deserted

former factories to assure that more than some millions will pass

through, away.  Is FEMA worried about an outside attack or

domestic arrests that follow economic collapse?  Why waste this

kind of money just to scare us?  No, these are for real, with train

boarding platforms, one-way turnstiles, and mass graves and

plastic coffins already in place.  Youtube profits beg us to get

out now, while we can.  They say the bible will take care of us,

“so just go, don’t worry about money or food.”  No matter how

loony they seem, unless you are firmly into the top one percent,

and philosophize to that effect, you may well be on the “list”

to join summer camp, or winter camp:  concentration is required

to survive such joints, but history suggests most won’t.  Instead

of enacting change after Reagan and Bush I, Clinton just made

matters worse, ditto Obama after Bush II.  This is not poetic shit,

but it doesn’t make headlines either. If Jews knew what was coming

don’t you think they’d have left before the SS and Gestapo moved

in? The CIA, FBI and Secret Service have lists.  If you KNEW you

were on all three, would you, in 2012, be hanging around the US?

WJS at 83    The James Gang Rides Again

 

Twister, the game of

tangled bodies, morphs

this year, as

alarms sound:  pillows stacked while

friends huddle below.

“This year our

weather is so strange:”

indeed, Tsunami, melting

ice, monster

volcanoes blowing.

As another year

passes, the James gang,

not Jesse

and Frank, or some 60s rock

band, but the Stubers,

stretch across

continents, soon to

reunite because closeness

must first be

geographic, then

hearts beat as

one because we can see each

other’s eyes,

read emotions in

body language, play

games, relax.

Skype does not replace a hug,

nor poems.

Ink unites by brain,

Hearts connect again.

Spring 2011 Gwangju, South Korea

 

Splotchy white-barked Sycamore pushes to surpass pines,

atop Chosun University Mountain.  To reach this bench

three hundred ninety seven staircase steps and fifty drops

of sweat are spent.  Pretty rich girls stroll on Saturday, but

this empty campus lets spring roll on unadmired by soccer

kickers and potential mates.  Chirping birds are more likely

to feel naturally sated after planting egg fertilization, eating

grass seed, flying in the Gobi’s yellow dust.  Invasion comes

to mountain peninsula not just from the west, but this spring

from post-tsunami Sendai and its blowing-up nuclear reactors.

Cancer only slows the drums that demand we build illogical

radioactive electricity.  Post-modern deconstruction should

be applied to decommission these ogres rather than ascribe

meaning to writing based on assumed idiosyncrasies acquired

during the author’s adolescence.  Human activity has brought

us both to productive heights and this wide-mouthed abyss

between rich and poor:  it will slow to urgent needs and war

now that demand outstrips supply universally. The young will

have, and the old will keep trying to have sex in order to keep

economic realities at bay, but the very richest will not fashion

legislation to help the poor this time, thus assuring mega-disaster.

Zen Dye, Sendai, Send Die

Throat swells, gums bleed, lymphs bulge on and off in this

post-nuclear tsunami Asian spring with its radio-rain and

sadness because years of stress already determined most people’s

cause of death, but now it’s a relative surety that cancer rates

will fly five years hence.  Sixteen students sweat a mid-term,

young enough to never have imagined life-shortening storm,

still sure the orgasmic joy of youth will last forever, or at least

looking forward to blissful mating, large alcohol, unflinching

prosperity and a good job awaiting stellar grade point average

in a system where a B+ is a slap in the face.  Stress exudes

and clogs up the aisles with a goo so sticky it’s hard to collect

the exams.  So Bright smiles, scores well, heads to a mid-term

a scant 10-minutes removed but ever so cheerful, even if she

is truly so embarrassed about leaving her pencil case behind.

Living proof that life goes merrily along amid the worst type

of disasters: corporate (Tepco shouldn’t have allowed tons

of radioactivity to spread into the Pacific), financial (banks

got trillions, sold homes at 70% off, foreclosed 9000 per day,

then asked for more bailouts), governmental (fascism at every

turn), environmental (look at it all, and still we drive our cars).

Over-Trumped

This so-called life, this enigma wrapped in pain,

surrounded by a sea of nuclear waste, this end-game

controlled by those who can profit the most by the end

of, what?  The end of humanity?  Oil? Seas? Biosphere?

Planet? “We the People” only included white landowners,

while three thousand cultures got cleaned off the map.

Masonic fascism has only worsened, now infecting the

Christian church to the extent that abject poverty spreads,

a wildfire, as stock prices rise, products move, after raw

material shipped thrice to discover the cheapest possible

labor.  This shit is not poetic, but you have to scream,

so how to scream on stage, on TV, at the movies in any

way that will register with the already-brainwashed

populace?  Millions more will end up criminals, jailed

on this side of the pond, the “already dead” plus refugees

climb toward five million “over there.”  As long as about

half as many as needed have jobs, and foreclosures hover

lower than ten thousand per day, we’ll be alright, right?

It’s just too bad, and if you can’t fight to survive and be

in a lucky location, bomb-free, death will trump poverty.

Blaring heat

returns late, provides

relief to

muscles, brains, love-starved

newly-matched mates, here

in the land

of the morning calm.

Green Gingko leaves, soon

bright yellow

flutter unpredictably

due to fan

shaped leaf outweighing

stems by so

much.  Our mates walk in

and out of shade

forty times

on the sunny side

of the street.  Gingkoes

taste too strong

but medicinal value

is high, so

locals eat them boiled soft or

in soup or

tea.  Their shade is a

bonus, fruit is sought

after by

amateurs and pros so the

city grows

them down streets in

communal Gwangju.

New Navy Base Horrors

Historic flutter

returns as memorial

five eighteen

turns into KPOP,

miniskirt dance festival.

May eighteenth being

the day Chun went nuts

on Gwangju:

democracy not

squelched but assured by

U.S.-backed para-

troopers executing dire

overkill,

inspiring rich

kid pamphlet-drop suicides

at Seoul National,

until, on the most

unlikely

peninsula, they

yielded power to

the masses.

A scant thirty years later

tendencies

toward those ugly times,

dictatorial

edicts, a

supposed presidential

suicide,

concrete rivers, eight

beef protestors dead.

Witness: monk

aflame, broken bones

mutilated girl,

troops sent in

over and over.

This behavior

is emulated in the

new dash for

ever-decreasing

resources.  Modified crops

allow huge

population while

stripping collection

of next year’s

seeds.  World disasters

assured via food

wars, global warming, auto

mobiles, self-

righteous billionaires.

When we lost touch with nature

all else crashed:

humanity traded for

big money.

Is there resurgent

loving hippiedom

more than fad,

or are we destined to fight

on behalf

of the same rich men

who enslave labor?

#75 MUSIC, ART, POETRY

Susan and Ben pown this one too.  Hello in beantown

Susan and Ben pown this one too. Hello in beantown

Multi moments multiply, multicultural generations blossom youngsters

As capitalist refugees, ex pats and local ladies and men brave the

provincial natural reaction to any invading force, be they linguists

or “liberators.”  Bone-up on enough local customs and you can

flourish, especially for those adept at leading two lives: public

and private.  Indeed the gossip wire is powered by the

most efficient Tesla/Bondini magnetron.  Go gently into this,

learn fast, join in, do not go it alone.  Friends dear friends

will make this neighborhood so appealing, over time you’re

not gonna wanna go home.  The swirl of what comes next

becomes intricate as economics worsen pm a rotating

basis, the direct result of greed soaked, yet bailed out anyway

bankers.  Where is safe?  What is safe?  Old? Arable land?

Protein?  Find your place fleeing youngsters, paradise lays

At your feet, just work hard, make contacts and primarily, be

Born into the right family, or, if need be, marry in.  Never let

The love die.  Build multiple paths and bridges over philosophical

Abysses.  Remain yourself and insist on self time, or poker

With ex pats, or dance parties filled with common hook-ups

And soap opera exits up steep leg-exposing stairs.  Welcome home!

art music poetry 72

Ibis-Billed Sparrow

                 Ibis-Billed Sparrow

Once, when I spilled,

No one cared.

(The cleaning was so simple.)

Imagine the tender

Thoughts that evolved

From an experience unseen.

Feel with me

What I felt that day.

Share, if you can

(with me)

What I have done,

What you have done.

An experience

(of)

Our own, to own forever.

Eachness into a

Oneness of unseen . . .

Now, when I spill,

Someone cares.

(The cleaning was so simple once.)

written at age 22

art music poetry 71

Opus 1574, 2004 Dolmens #1, this series of rock paintings has continued long after this one.  UP to #9 by now, 2015

Opus 1574, 2004 Dolmens #1, this series of rock paintings has continued long after this one. Up to #9 by now, 2015

Woodstock

You started such a change of time,

A decade of evolution.

Marakesh blows through my mind,

An awareness revolution.

Richie cries the song of the free,

Carlos plays to open masses.

Looking back I see

A crossbreading of the classes.

Thousands swarmed and felt the rain,

Jimi let it flow.

Sly gave soulful tears of pain,

Will we ever know?

As water cuts through stone,

Time cuts the best of men,

But Ravi, not alone

Would do it all again.

Beautiful people, ‘oft insane,

Birthdays come and go,

Staying dry against the rain,

Peace-songs make the show.

Surprising unknown acts

Made their way around.

Who are you? – Rats?

Listen to the sound.

The Who was most excited,

Getting all the glory.

Abbey, uninvited,

Tried to tell a story.

Pinball wizards filled the crowd,

Beside the acid heads.

Psychedelics made it loud,

John sang for new-born deads.

Muddy fun-wars ’round the lake

And the music of Alvin Lee.

Jamming out for Jesus sake!

Goin’ home, (the blues are free).

Ten years after Woodstock,

Will it ever be the same?

Maybe I should stop

This agonizing game.

Sha-Na-Na sold out to movies,

But Johnny Winter was there.

Playing his slide – groovy

Nothing there was square.

Max Yasgur we all owe you,

For your business-sense and balls.

No one else will repeat

“The concert without walls.”

Grace found somebody to love,

Rock was a way of thinking.

Joe got extremely stoned,

Everyone was drinking.

Janis screamed for rebels,

War-torn lovers tripped.

Joan sang out for politicos

Draft dodgers got ripped.

Vietnam was going strong

But music filled the field.

No way to right the wrong

Committed by the steele.

Where have all the players gone?

Long time passing.

Joni sings of Mingus

But is she, just now, laughing?

Give me one old-time “F”

And what are we fighting for!?

There’s nothing really left,

Let’s boogie on out the door.

Creedence and the Grateful Dead

Gave us Blood Sweat and Tears.

The Band played on (unsaid)

Has it been ten years?

Butterfield sang the blues,

I guess he’s still around.

They’ve all paid the dues,

But where can they be found?

Try, just a little bit harder,

To remember all those dreams.

Make up your mind,

Are they what they seem?

One day there will re-occur

The same type of happening.

Get it while you can,

If you go to such a thing.

Now I wonder what will come

The next time out the door.

Will the rain be as sun,

Will it be a bore?

written age 21, 10th anniversary of Woodstock

#74 MUSIC Gadlfies, “Ice age Show” and “Christina Ricci” and Art and Poetry

Opus 1532 Hello Heathens - Copy

Owned by Ben and Susan, Beantown.

Ice Age Show and Christina Ricci from the 2001 Gadflies recordings.

Doug Stuber, Bass Vocals, lyrics; Kyle Peters guitar, music; Cristian Alva, drums, rhythm coach.

HAYTI Center, January 31, 2013

 

Community Health Centers swell to bursting after private

universities buy the general hospitals, start turning away

anyone without insurance.  Plenty die who would ordinarily

be saved if the Hypocritic oath were as weighty as the

almighty dollar.  Making big bucks of the already-made-

miserable in society is not reserved for lawyers or mortgage

bankers, so let’s add hospital corporations, medicinal supplies,

overpriced insurance, overpriced schools, nice controls and

the real prospect of Medicaid/Medicare cuts that would make

matters worse for who, guess who!? Let’s get this straight:

first they build out for-profit jails and FEMA camps, then they

bail out the thieves at the top, now they figure to balance one trillion

dollars per year  deficits on the backs of the same neighborhood

that saw all its jobs disappear and filled the jails…and the way

they will start is to finish medical support!?  That and firing

more teachers, allowing beidges to collapse, and, yeah, oh yeah,

still hoisting research grants for next generation weaponry.  Health

care, oh HEALTH CARE you glorious symbol of all that is

fascist about my dear USA.  Lord, keep me healthy!

Art Music Poetry 70

Opus 1575 2004

                     Opus 1575, 2004

The Glen

Moving down a rocky slope,

Stepping over moss.

Living with the hope

That life is not a loss.

Picking wild geraniums,

Shuffling with the trees.

Running from the things

That fill me with disease.

Sitting in a pile of leaves,

Beside a shaded knoll,

The beauty here deceives

The mindlesss, heartless soul.

Rocks obstruct the way

Down to Icy Glen.

In the middle of May

The bugs attack all men.

Wooden bridges line the path

Back to the one-road town.

Back to rats and rejects,

Always feeling down.

written at age 19

Art, Music Poetry 63

Kicevo Opus 1681 or so IMG 3894

From the Kicevo, Macedonia Artist Colony, 2009

             The Springs

 

Let’s go down to the springs,

We can watch the dogwoods grow.

Let’s go down and watch things,

Get up right now, let’s go!

 

The water will be running,

We certainly won’t miss that.

Today you do look stunning,

Let’s go down and chat.

 

There’s something I want to tell you

There’s something I want to say:

Now we’re a nation of two

Starting this very day.

 

So, let’s go down to the springs

We can watch the dogwood grow.

We’ll hear the bird that sings,

There’s one thing that I know.

 

When we go down to the springs

We’ll see if two can be one.

We’ll avoid the things that sting

And catch a little sun.

 

The thing that I have found

Is a love for only you.

My heart will always pound

When I enter our nation of two.

 

written at age 16